Past Caring (26 page)

“Will you listen to me?”

“Say what you have to say and have done.”

“I love you, Elizabeth. I have done since we first met—you
know that. I risked everything for you—I never expected to lose it
as well as you. I have never deceived you in any way. I came to
Putney the day I resigned from the Home Office without the slightest suspicion that anything was wrong. I was greeted like . . . like a
criminal—a criminal who was not to be told his crime. That’s how I
still feel. It’s too much to bear. Will you please just tell me what my
offence was?”

“Have you finished?”

“Not quite. Have you any idea how it felt to read in the newspa-

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per that you had married Gerald Couchman? Why him—of all
people?”

“Don’t try to belittle Gerald in my eyes. You won’t succeed and
it only increases my disgust at the way you’ve behaved.”

“Elizabeth, I’ve lost you and I’ve lost my career because of
some ghastly misunderstanding which I’ve never been given the opportunity to put right.”

“There’s no misunderstanding.”

“I beseech you. Think it possible you may be mistaken.”

It was odd that, at that moment, I should choose Cromwell’s
words to frame my last appeal. Yet it was a desperate bid and I
sensed that it was the last gasp. The words came to my lips as the
one possible way of planting a seed of doubt in the set, opposed mind
that now confronted mine. And, for an instant, there was a flicker of
her eyes, a cast to her face that spoke of some cloud across her stern
resolve. Then I tried to capitalize on whatever slight inroad I had
made in a manner I should have known was ill-conceived.

“Has Gerald told you about his conduct at the Battle of
Colenso?”

Elizabeth looked at me then almost with pity. “Do you think
that can compare?” she said softly. “Gerald may not be a perfect
man , but he is a good and honest one. Colenso was one of the first
things he told me about. It doesn’t matter now—how could you
think it would? There’s trust between us—not deceit. Now let
me go.”

My grasp dropped from the perambulator and Elizabeth set off
past me down the path. I stood at a loss, appalled by the futility of
our exchange. Her words echoed in my mind—“Do you think that
can compare?”—and stung me to cry after her.

“Can’t compare with what?”

She looked back at me. “Leave us alone, Edwin. I’ve nothing
more to say to you. I can forgive you, if that’s what you want, but
never forget. Go in peace and leave us in peace.”

She turned then and walked on and I did not follow. I sensed the
finality of her words, that I would never see her again , would never
know and therefore never have the peace she wished me. The elegant figure in black receding down the path merged with others
on the Heath that day, left forever my shrinking world without a
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backward glance. And I stood helpless, watching her go, drained of
purpose, bereft of hope. Remember this, I thought: fix in your mind
this day in January, when you looked your last upon your love,
merging now in the distance with the gathering dusk that rose with
swift and clammy stealth from the city below.

I remained in my hotel room on Sunday, deciding that other guests
should be spared my company when in such a black mood. I paced
the floor, stared out of the window, smoked more than was good for
me and exchanged a couple of words with the maid who brought
meals to my door.

This solitary confinement was an attempt to sweat out my
feverish obsession with Elizabeth. To that extent, it succeeded. Our
encounter on Hampstead Heath had told me that I could never hope
to win her back. After that, my desire to know the reason was in danger of becoming morbid. Therefore, by Monday, I had resolved to
make a clean break. It was Twelfth Night, the eighth anniversary of
my brother’s death, and hence no time to leave my mother to
gloomy nostalgia at Barrowteign. I decided to return to Devon
straightaway to be with her.

And so I would have done, but for a message awaiting me in
the hotel lobby. It was a sealed envelope delivered by courier. I
tore it open in a hurry, wishing to be off as soon as possible. I was astonished to discover that it was a personal note from the Prime
Minister asking me to call on him that day. What could Lloyd
George want? Even my new resolve to leave well alone could not resist such a lure.

I was at Downing Street within the hour, finding it odd to enter
number 10 under new tenancy. And new it undoubtedly was. Gone
was the calm of Asquith’s day. Instead, clerks and secretaries hurried hither and thither along passages stacked with files and packing cases. My escort, Miss Stevenson, explained that most of the
staff were off to Paris within the week to attend upon Lloyd George
during the Peace Conference. I expressed surprise that, in that case,
he had time to see me.

“He was anxious to fit you in before going,” she said brightly.

“I’m flattered,” I replied drily.

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“There should always be time for old colleagues, shouldn’t
there?”

I agreed, keeping to myself my thought that though there
should be, Lloyd George was not the man to find it without good
reason.

He received me in his study, a secretary bustling out as I went
in. Miss Stevenson introduced me, then also left. Alone, Lloyd
George eyed me a little warily and I him. Time and success had
changed him, no question—the mane of hair now grey, the face more
lined—but he doubtless observed that time and failure had done me
few favours either. He rose from his chair to shake my hand.

“Sit down , Edwin , sit down ,” he said, drawing up a chair for
me. “It’s been a long time.”

“Many years.”

“And many things have changed in those years. You probably
know about most of my changes. But what have you been up to?”

“The war occupied most of my time.”

“It would, it would. What sort of a war did you have?”

“Better than most—I’m still alive.”

“I’m glad of that. Too many aren’t, God knows. If only . . . well,
it’s over now. We have to look to the future, don’t we?”

“Easier said than done.”

“Not if you’ve a purpose. We’re off to Paris at the end of the
week—lock, stock and barrel—and I mean to see that this peace ensures nobody has to go through another war like the one we’ve just
fought.”

“Fine sentiments. I wish you luck.”

Lloyd George’s look shifted to the blotter in front of him; his
tone altered. “Winston told me about your meeting last Thursday.

He told me you didn’t seem happy.”

“An understatement.”

“Or healthy.”

“An exaggeration. I’m better placed than a lot of ex-soldiers
who don’t have my means. I’ve a limp and a dicey lung, but I’ll
survive.”

“English winters and London fogs won’t help your lung.”

“Probably not, but I don’t intend to visit London often.”

“Perhaps a warmer climate would help.”

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“Perhaps.”

“If so, I’ve an offer that might interest you. Our consulate on
Madeira is vacant at present. I have you in mind for the post.”

“I don’t think . . .”

He held up his hand in smiling protest. “Don’t be so quick to say
no. It’s a lovely island, I’m told, famed for its beneficial effects in
pulmonary cases. And it’s not a complete sinecure. The situation in
Portugal is chaotic and could spread to its overseas territories at
any time. There’s a substantial British community in Madeira and
we obviously want to look after them. Able, reliable men are hard to
come by for assignments like this one. If it aids your health and
gives you somewhere to exercise your talents, so much the better.”

I hesitated to respond. I took his word for the state of
Portuguese politics and the Madeiran climate, being ignorant of
both. The oddity was that he was not. Since I did not for one moment
suppose that the British population of a remote Atlantic island were
as close to his heart as he claimed, I could only conclude that this
post was tailored to fit me. Lloyd George, in other words, wanted me
to go. Whether this was simply because Churchill had painted a pathetic picture of me and Lloyd George was eager to help an old
friend I doubted. The alternative, that my enquiries were an embarrassment to both of them and that they therefore wanted rid of me,
fitted everything I had so far learned—or rather, had failed to
learn. But what was I to do about such suspicions? The only object of
pursuing them was to reclaim Elizabeth and that I now knew to be
beyond me. As for politics, I was beyond recall. Men do not come
back from the obscurity into which I had plunged.

So, whatever the reasons, Lloyd George had offered me a comfortable niche to rest and recuperate in , forget my past and indulge
myself in colonial comforts. Two days before, I would have flung the
offer back in his face, voiced my suspicion that his motives were the
worst, demanded an explanation. And the offer would have been
withdrawn , my suspicion rejected, explanation denied me. I could
no longer afford such a gesture. I felt old and tired, in need of a rest
yet wanting a change. Madeira seemed to provide both. So I was
tempted to accept. My head told me that it was the only thing to do
now my heart was no longer in the struggle.

Yet it was a big step, as much metaphorically as actually, and

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my political instincts told me not to commit myself at once. Besides,
though I had no wish to antagonize Lloyd George, I had no wish to
flatter him with some fawning acceptance. So I prevaricated.

“It’s a big step—yet I can see its attractions. I’d need to think
about it.”

“There’s really not very much time, Edwin. I have to know before we leave for Paris.”

“That’s only reasonable. I could let you know by the end of the
week.”

“Very well. I’ll hold it open until then.”

“It’s kind of you to have thought of me.”

“With all the work I have to do here, you’re lucky I didn’t take
the job myself.”

I laughed, though he had not amused me. I knew, and he knew I
knew, that the Premiership was what he had always wanted. Paris
was to be his bow on the international stage. Asquith was not jettisoned to win the war but to win Downing Street for Lloyd George.

From a man reputed to sell honours to the highest bidder, unconditional offers of congenial employment were inherently suspect.

Miss Stevenson came in then to remind Lloyd George that he
had an appointment with the Chancellor of the Exchequer at eleven
o’clock. I took the opportunity to withdraw, leaving them stooped together over their papers. I walked out of 10 Downing Street for the
last time, passing at the door Bonar Law, the Chancellor, coming
in—a stern , predatory figure, whose haste alone could not explain
the cold lack of recognition that greeted my smile. I who once had
sat in conference with him stood now excluded from his vision.

This thought dogged me as I made my way to Paddington and
caught the train to Exeter. I sat alone in a compartment, watching
the wintry landscape pass, seeking to come to terms with my own
insignificance. I was no longer a minister, no longer an M.P., no
longer a soldier. There seemed nothing left but a decent repose in
sub-tropical obscurity.

My mind was more or less made up before I reached
Barrowteign , though I did not tell my mother so. She was delighted
to see me back, especially to brighten such a sombre anniversary, so
I delayed telling her about Madeira until the following day. Even
then , the medical argument won her over, for she was likely to miss
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